


on the screen and between the pages

by sky_reid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aromantic, Aromantic Harry, Asexual Character, Asexual Louis, Asexuality, Coming Out, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, Louis-centric, M/M, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, and the queerplatonic relationship is harry and louis, and zayn really likes louis, even when you're supposedly a-ok with everything, genderqueer harry, harry's the one who's aro and gq ftr, idk i'm sorry, louis really likes cuddles, mentions of anxiety but nothing too serious, this is basically a very long essay on how stressful it is to come out, well i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis' pretty ace. he's still not coming out on a pun though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the screen and between the pages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PigSlay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PigSlay/gifts).



> hello :) i really liked this prompt and i genuinely hope i did it justice so here you go, enjoy, it ended up a lot more about louis himself than about his relationship with zayn oops sorry if that's not what you wanted
> 
> the title is from andy warhol's quote about sex (sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets)

Harry is the first person he tells. Distantly he thinks he should maybe feel guilty, but he’s too busy having a minor freak-out to give it too much thought before he barges through the door to their room. They’re still in bed, stretched out diagonally and taking up as much space as they physically can. The sheet is tangled in their legs, leaving most of their body exposed. There are dark bruises on their hips and the room reeks of sex despite the boy from last night leaving hours earlier. Louis feels a little sick. Then he feels a lot sick for feeling sick. He doesn't want to suddenly turn judgmental about this now.

 

He drops onto the bed heavily. “H,” he whines. “Wake up.” Harry mumbles something and curls up on their side, hugging the pillow and kicking the sheets further down to the foot of the bed. Louis lies down on his side next to them. “Harry,” he whispers, poking Harry’s cheek. “Harry, come on.” He can feel the tingle of panic in his chest, the uncomfortable tightness around his lungs and he needs his friend. He jabs his finger in Harry’s ribs so hard they yelp in pain.

 

“Louis, what the fuck,” they mumble, their long fingers wrapping tightly around Louis’ wrist.

 

“Wake up.”

 

“’m awake,” Harry slurs, their eyes still closed. They don’t sound awake, in fact their grip on Louis’ arm slackens and they try to pull him closer. Probably for the first time since they’ve known each other, Louis resists. That at least seems to get Harry’s attention. Their eyes flutter open slowly and they blink at Louis sleepily. “Lou?” they ask, voice raspy and deep. They sound adorably confused. Louis already feels better just being near them and talking to them. They let go of Louis’ wrist and snake their hand down to twine their fingers together. “You alright?”

 

Louis bites his lip. His fingers twitch nervously in Harry’s grip, tapping out a quick rhythm over the back of their hand. He’s not sure where to start. He settles on, “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

 

Harry narrows their eyes suspiciously. “No, you’re not. You’re never sorry for waking me up. What’s going on?” Louis shrugs one shoulder, suddenly shy. He cuddles closer and wraps Harry’s arms around himself.

 

They’ve always been close, been friends for as long as Louis can remember. They practically grew up together, Louis moving in down the street from Harry when he was only six. He still remembers Harry as that weird smiley kid who brought him cookies the night his dad moved that last piece of furniture in from the front yard. It was a surprisingly dry and warm summer and his mum was in the kitchen making lemonade when he opened the door to find Anne and Harry there, identical grins on their faces. Harry stumbled a bit over saying welcome and they almost dropped the plate in their hands, but Louis liked them immediately. They were like a little sibling he could practise his big brother skills on before they were actually needed.

 

They’ve been inseparable ever since then. The two years’ difference between them didn’t mean much, not even when they both started school; they didn’t have classes together, but it was still Harry that Louis ate lunch with and Harry that Louis walked home with and Harry that Louis invited over for sleepovers. And when he figured out that the butterflies in his belly he felt whenever he was around their very young, very fit high school football coach weren’t jealousy, but a hopeless crush, it was Harry Louis came to. Harry was just a kid back then, but they still helped Louis feel better, kissed his cheek and baked him a tray of double chocolate chip muffins and hugged him when they went to sleep that night, sharing a single bed. He’s pretty sure he cried a little, got the shoulder of their sleep shirt all wet with snot, but they didn’t complain.

 

Years later Louis was babysitting through the two years Harry still had in school and the other two that it took them both to save the money they needed before they could make the move to Manchester for university together when they sat in front of him on the grass and fallen leaves in the park near the school and admitted haltingly and shyly that they didn’t really understand what it was like to fall in love, that they didn’t really ever look at other people that way, that they never felt any butterflies or heart stutters or sweaty palms. They looked so scared and sad and confused as they picked at the sparse grass under their knees angrily that all Louis wanted was to hug them. They held onto him tightly, as if expecting him to go away and promised, their voice quiet and breaking a little, that they loved people, that they loved _him_ , they just didn’t think they loved _that way_. Louis felt guilty that his first selfish thought was about how he felt infinitely less lonely now that he knew Harry was queer too.

 

Their first apartment together in Manchester, the single-bedroom on the fourth floor in a building with no lift, the one they left behind nearly three years ago now is home to many of Louis’ dearest memories, the place where they were free to live the way they wanted for the first time in their lives, the place where they both grew up but also where they were young and reckless, where they threw endless parties that lasted till dawn, where they got drunk and smoked up for the first time, where they kissed pretty boys and prettier girls, where they had sex for the first time, where Louis came out to his mom over the phone, heart beating in his throat and palms sweaty, while Harry held his hand. It’s the place where Harry handed him the pink nail varnish his sisters had left behind and shyly asked him to paint their nails. It’s the address Harry listed on all their online orders when they wanted their frilly skirts and high-heeled boots and short dresses delivered. It’s where they held onto his waist and hid their face in his neck and whispered that maybe, just maybe they weren’t really a boy, maybe weren’t really a girl either and if he could please try to refer to them as _they_ , maybe that would be nice. It’s where they both realised they would be alright.

 

So Louis is not scared of Harry’s reaction. It is and always has been the two of them against the world. Other people have come and gone, friends and partners on both sides, some that stayed longer and some that left quickly, some that mattered and some that didn’t, some that he can’t even remember anymore and some that are still sticking around. Harry is no longer his whole world, not the only true friend he has, not the only queer person he knows, not the only one he can talk to about anything. They are, however, still the _first_ person he comes to and still the one he can trust with anything because he knows, no matter what, they’ll be there. He knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next, Harry’s arms are gonna stay wrapped around him, their legs tangled with his, their lips pressed to the back of his neck.

 

Really, Louis is not exactly sure what the problem is. He likes to think of himself as informed and accepting and open-minded. For years has he known Harry to be aromantic and not once has he ever even subconsciously wondered if there was something wrong with them. For years has Harry been sexually active without ever having a relationship, for years have they been making friends and charming people left and right, for years have they lived their life the way they want to and Louis has never, would never judge them for it, would never suggest they might not have met the right person, would never question if maybe they were lying, would never think that a quick kiss on the lips at the door is a sign of Harry finally falling in love or anything other than the beauty that is their love for physical contact. And yet, it’s different when it’s about him.

 

He’s been thinking about it a lot lately, has probably been suspecting it for weeks, maybe even months without actively considering it. He’s never had much of a sex drive, has gone months without touching himself and much longer without being remotely interested in a similar kind of contact with someone else. He looks at people and finds them beautiful, finds them attractive, finds them _hot_ , wants to kiss them and dance with them to dirty music with a heavy bassline and sit on their lap while he makes out with them. He used to think that alone was enough to mean he was allosexual. He’s about 98% sure he was wrong now.

 

If somebody else were to come to him with the issues and questions he has, he’d know exactly what to say because in theory, he _knows_. He knows that thinking people are attractive is not the same as being attracted to them. He knows having sex does not mean being sexual. He knows sexuality is fluid and changing. He knows not being sex repulsed does not equal _wanting_ sex. He knows loving _physical_ contact and craving _sexual_ contact are two different things. He _knows_. But there’s a difference between knowing something theoretically and applying it to yourself and maybe Louis just needs to hear somebody else tell him all these things.

 

He shuffles backwards so his whole body is pressed against Harry’s, Louis’ threadbare t-shirt and boxer briefs the only things between them, and tugs on Harry’s arms so they hug him tighter. They’re bigger than him now, have been for quite some years, and he’s never been more grateful for it than he is at this moment; Harry’s hugs are the most comforting thing in the world, make him feel calm and protected and cared for and it makes his frantic thoughts slow and quiet down and the anxiety in his chest gradually subside.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts. The words get stuck in his throat. Harry’s nose nudges behind his ear and they hum questioningly. “What if…” He takes a deep breath. It shouldn’t feel as monumental as it does, Harry knows him inside and out already and he’s been proudly and loudly queer in other ways for years already, but he feels almost like he’s 14 all over again and only figuring himself out still and that’s more than a bit scary. He thought he was over all that. “I think I might be ace?” Though it comes out quiet and questioning, Louis feels like he’s just shouted his biggest secret to the entire world and it’s just as strangely liberating to give it a name and have it out there now as it was more than a decade ago.

 

Harry’s arms tighten around him and he feels them kiss the side of his neck. “Okay,” they say simply.

 

“Okay?” Louis asks, just to be sure. It’s just a word, two syllables, it’s _nothing_ , but it means so much to him somehow, the simple acceptance of it, like it’s no big deal. A familiar warmth spreads through his chest and he feels a fond smile spread over his face.

 

“Okay,” Harry repeats. “Doesn’t change anything about how—“

 

“Don’t—“

 

“—ace you are,” they finish with a grin Louis can _hear_. “Doesn’t change anything between us,” they add more quietly. Louis laces their fingers together and shoves his face in the pillow so he can hide his grin. He feels so much lighter now that he’s said it, now that someone else knows, now that they’ve told him he’s fine, he’s alright, there’s nothing wrong with him. Harry shifts a bit behind him. “Unless— Do you, like, _want_ something to change? I could, I don’t know, put some clothes on.”

 

Louis snorts. “If I were repelled by your prick, I’d’ve moved out a long time ago, Styles.”

 

Harry giggles behind him and pinches his hip. “I’m not that bad.”

 

“You really are,” Louis replies before elbowing Harry in the ribs so they can’t say anything back. “Wouldn’t be opposed to airing this room out, though. It _reeks_.” Harry groans and mumbles something about _whiny little shit_ under their breath, but they roll out of bed and open the windows immediately so Louis figures he can’t really complain.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t _really_ think about it again until days later. He’s still settling into it a bit, testing the label out, adding it to his social profiles and deleting it without saving the changes just to see how it feels. He’s still in the process of working it out with himself and accepting it, so it doesn’t really feel in any way final or decided. It doesn’t feel like something he really needs to talk about. There’s a few jokes here and there with Harry, a few quick questions, a few cuddles he doesn’t even realise he needs until Harry’s already given them, but nothing tangible.

 

And then Harry asks, “Have you told him?”

 

Louis is just locking the door behind Zayn, still smiling a bit at nothing specific, still tasting the weed they smoked on the balcony on his tongue. He turns to Harry and tilts his head. “Told him what?”

 

“That you’re ace?”

 

It hits Louis like a ton of bricks. “Oh, shit,” he whispers.

 

He’s been dating Zayn for a couple of months already, met him at work when Ms. Wick was ill and they couldn’t find a substitute until someone suggested an artist friend of a friend of a cousin. They hit it off right away over jokes shared over tea mugs and serious conversations during smoke breaks. Zayn didn’t stay at Louis’ school for very long, only three short weeks, but they continued to text, went out for tea a few times, hung out at the park, visited a few museums and galleries. It was the easiest thing in the world for Louis to lean over and kiss Zayn that cold Saturday in November because everything with Zayn has been easy, natural. Zayn fits into Louis’ life seamlessly, gets on with his friends and works around his schedule; he needs his space and Louis can respect that, but he gives Louis the same in return, doesn’t push his boundaries or get jealous of his relationships with his friends. They have fun together, understand each other without many words and click in a way that Louis likes, a way that makes him feel safe and anchored, a way he can’t quite explain.

 

He doesn’t even realise he’s stopped breathing until Harry’s hand is on his shoulder and they’re saying, “Hey, was just asking, it’s alright, you don’t have to tell anyone anything, just breathe.”

 

Louis laughs a little hysterically. “Not the kind of thing you can really hide in a relationship, is it?” he asks as Harry guides him to sit at the kitchen table.

 

Harry kisses his forehead. “Don’t have to tell anyone anything until you’re ready, Lou,” they state firmly.

 

Somewhere deep down Louis knows they’re right. He owes no one a coming out, not even Zayn, but at the same time, he feels like this is something he really does need to bring up. In all the time they’ve been dating he can count on the fingers of one hand the times they’ve had sex and half of those were lazy blowjobs they exchanged in Zayn’s studio in the middle of the night while high out of their minds. They hold hands and they kiss a lot, they make out and they cuddle, they sleep in the same bed when they’re spending the night together and they shower together in the morning, but it rarely ever goes beyond that. Zayn’s never pushed for more and he’s never asked anything; he probably thinks Louis just prefers to take things slow. Which would be fine, if it were true, and a few weeks ago Louis might’ve agreed with that, if the topic came up, but he has a different perspective now and he thinks maybe he should clarify that.

 

He thinks about texting Zayn that night, mentioning that they should talk, gets as far as typing the message out. He deletes it and only sends _goodnight_ instead.

 

*

 

He has the perfect opportunity to bring it up a few nights after that. They’re lying on Zayn’s couch, kissing and touching while some crime show plays on the TV in the background. Louis’s lying on top of Zayn, sucking a love bite into his collarbone, one of his legs between Zayn’s, his thigh pressed up against where he can feel Zayn’s hard and Zayn’s tugging on his hair, his other hand on Louis’ arse and it’s on the tip of Louis’ tongue, it’s right there, but he doesn’t say anything; he kisses Zayn some more, lets it taper off and slow down until their lips are just touching gently, until Zayn’s hands are back on his waist and he feels less like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. They spend the night right there, too lazy to get up and make the move to the bedroom. Zayn falls asleep easily, but Louis lies awake long into the night, listening to the steady beat of Zayn’s heart with his head resting on Zayn’s chest and wondering if he’d still be lying there if he’d said something.

 

*

 

Niall takes them to this pub that has queer-themed nights every Friday. He discovered it quite by accident, he explains, having walked in already half-drunk last week and found the most colourful selection of drinks he’d ever seen in his entire life. Harry absolutely loves it from the moment they walk through the door; they’re in love with everything from the rainbows hung up on the walls and instead of curtains to the colourful candles on the bar to the cheesy tunes to the orientation-specific drinks menu. They’re wearing their pronouns badge pinned prominently on their chest and they get the colour-coded bracelets for aromantic and pansexual from the bowls by the door, tying them around their wrist before ordering the rainbow cocktail. Louis shakes his head at them fondly and Zayn calls their enthusiasm cute. Niall introduces himself as Bi-all while ordering his tricoloured drink and Zayn happily joins in, getting the loudest pink drink on offer. Louis considers all three of the asexual-representing drinks. In the end he just repeats Niall’s order. Harry brushes his shoulder with their own and gives him a reassuring smile.

 

*

 

He almost says it when they’re getting ready to go out one evening, all of them gathered at Harry and Louis’ place, Niall lying back on the couch and drinking a beer and Liam humming some up-tempo song while playing with his hair in front of mirror. Louis is in the kitchen with Harry, standing between their spread legs and doing their makeup, a dozen makeup brushes in his hands and almost the entirety of Harry’s makeup collection strewn across the table they’re sitting on. Zayn comes up behind him and hugs him, his chin poking Louis’ shoulder when he rests his head there. He runs his hand down Harry’s thigh, smoothing over their forest green velvet skirt while Louis finishes contouring their lips.

 

“You look really good,” he says, his breath tickling Louis' ear and making him twitch. He pulls the lip liner away half a breath before Harry grins and almost ruins all of his hard work.

 

“Thank you,” they say, primly straightening out their skirt and smiling so their dimples pop out. “Louis helped me.”

 

Zayn kisses Louis’ cheek and jaw, his lips stretched in a smile. “Yeah, he’s aces like that,” he says before giving Louis’ hip a pat and walking away. Harry looks like they’re _dying_ to make the pun, but they at least wait until Zayn is out of earshot to open their mouth.

 

“Do not,” Louis warns.

 

“ _Aces_ , Lou,” Harry argues, grinning like it’s the best joke anyone’s ever made.

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m not coming out by making a pun, you big dork,” he says, like the words weren’t at the tip of his tongue, like his heart isn’t beating twice as fast as normally because of how close he came to actually saying it.

 

*

 

Valentine’s Day has always been a strange one in their household.

 

Louis has always fancied himself quite the romantic; he likes love and he likes to be in love and he finds the idea of celebrating that rather appealing; even the red and pink heart decorations everywhere are cute. If he’s in a relationship on Valentine’s Day he likes to go all out for his partners, take them out on a cute, perfectly planned date and buy them a gift or three or five, take them home and make them come again and again. It’s not about what he gets in return, not for him, it’s about making somebody he loves feel good. He’s not blind to the issues of the holiday though, the commercialism of it and how harmful it can be for people like Harry. Because Harry likes to think they’re over any internalised issues with their orientation, that they don’t care what other people think or say, that it doesn’t affect them and most of the time Louis believes that’s true. Harry has grown so much since they first discovered they were aromantic and they’ve learned to accept themselves and love themselves in a way that Louis still finds inspiring, but they still struggle sometimes and Valentine’s Day is always extra hard on them. Between all their issues with it, the two of them have spent more Valentine’s Days together than apart, usually snuggled together on a couch and watching silly movies until it’s light outside. Louis can’t imagine what it must be like to have the entire world celebrating something you don’t even feel, to have it so blatantly shoved in your face and treated like the only kind of love that matters.

 

He’s beginning to have a clue this year though. The closer they come to Valentine’s Day, the more he’s becoming aware of how sexualised the whole thing is. Wherever he looks for gifts, for tips, for ideas, everything includes taking your partner to bed at the end of the day, sex tips and lingerie sites. Louis is not actually _opposed_ to any of that per se, he’s just quite frankly getting sick of sex being presented as the end goal of a day that’s supposed to be about love and he’s not even experiencing a tenth of what Harry’s been through.

 

“How do you do this _every year_?” he complains to Harry the evening before. It’s a surprisingly cold night and they’re sharing a blanket, cuddled up on the floor with Project Runway reruns playing on mute. Louis is pressed up against Harry’s side, his head resting on their shoulder and his legs in their lap. He has his phone in hand in case it vibrates; Zayn’s been holed up in the studio all day, called that morning to say he was _feeling it_ and might only be available sporadically. Louis’ been texting him throughout the day, little messages about his day, complaints about the grading he still needs to do and praises to the pizza and delivery gods. True to his word, Zayn has only answered a few times, but Louis doesn’t mind; they have a nice day together planned for tomorrow before they go out with Harry, Niall and Liam in the evening anyway. Zayn gets like this sometimes when he’s in his art world, forgets to eat or drink or sleep or talk to people because he’s too immersed in what he’s doing; the few texts Louis’ got today are actually an improvement.

 

Harry snorts above him. “I have this friend, see,” they say, “he’s a pretty cool dude. Reminds me loving people platonically is just as important as loving them romantically. Not in so many words, mind, he’d kill me if he thought I was calling him as sappy as all that,” they add cheekily. Louis pokes them in the ribs for that last comment. “It’s different, isn’t it?” they ask out of the blue. Louis pokes their tummy gently and hums questioningly. “Like, when you put a name to it? It’s like you’re more… _aware_ somehow, I suppose?” They take his hand and slip it under their jumper, place it flat on their own belly and lace their fingers together. “Like, before you realised it was a _thing_ , it was just… there. You didn’t really think about it. And now you look at the exact same movies and books and newspaper articles and you see them differently.”

 

Louis hums in agreement and slumps a little further down so his head is on Harry’s chest and the blanket covers half of his face. It’s cold and he’s sleepy; Harry is warm and comfortable and they smell nice. He snuggles closer and closes his eyes, letting himself drift off to the sound of Harry’s breathing.

 

*

 

It starts as a perfectly ordinary day, as far as their Valentine’s Days go. Louis wakes up with his mouth full of Harry’s hair and his arms wrapped around their waist from behind. He wakes Harry up by tickling them until there are tears running down their cheeks and they’re howling with laughter. He kisses their forehead and they tell him they love him the way they’ve done every February 14th for almost a decade, grinning when he says it back. Harry makes breakfast, traditional no-heart-shapes, no-pink-or-red-food-colouring-and-decorations pancakes that they eat in front of the TV.

 

The thing that is different this year is that Louis is getting progressively more nervous as time passes. Because he’s been thinking about it and he’s decided. He’ll tell Zayn today. He’s had dozens of opportunities by now, dozens of situations where the topic could’ve been brought up more or less naturally and he’s always chickened out. He thinks maybe if he has a date to latch onto, some sort of event set up from the outside that will put some sort of pressure on him to make him bite the bullet, it might be easier to get the words out of his mouth. He’s still not sure exactly how he’s gonna do it or what he’s gonna say; he’s actually been avoiding thinking about it because he forgot to account for the anxiety a set date would bring him, but he’s not backing out this time. Even if he’s petrified. He’s grown comfortable with thinking of himself as asexual and especially with being open about it and proud of it over the last few weeks, he’s become more active in those circles online and he’s spoken to Harry about it more than once, but he’s scared of how Zayn will react.

 

He knows Zayn won’t force him into anything he doesn’t want to do, Zayn is not that kind of person; if he were, Louis would’ve run from him long ago. He might however be upset that Louis didn’t mention something sooner (which is fair enough, Louis figures) or he might not want to be with Louis if an active sex life is very important to him; they haven’t been particularly active in the months they’ve been together, but Zayn might just expect him to become more interested in sex with time, which is decidedly different from what he might expect if he knew he was dating an asexual person.

 

“I’m gonna tell Zayn today,” Louis announces as he takes the last bite of his pancake. He figures he can’t get out of it as easily if somebody else knows that he’s supposed to do it today.

 

Harry looks at him with their eyebrows raised and a small smile on their face. “Are you?”

 

“Mmhm,” Louis mumbles. He’s blushing and he has no idea why.

 

And then Harry softly says, “I’m proud of you,” and Louis has a sudden urge to just cover his face with both of his hands.

 

He swallows thickly. “Yeah, yeah. Wait until I’ve actually done it.” He nudges Harry’s foot with his own. He won’t say it, but they both know the support actually means a lot to him. Even if things go badly with Zayn today, and God, Louis hopes they don’t because he likes Zayn, he _really_ likes Zayn, but if they _do_ , he knows he has someone on his side.

 

*

 

The best thing about dating Zayn is how easy everything is with him. Louis gets so nervous in the ten minutes he spends loitreing in front of their favourite café and waiting for Zayn that his hands are literally shaking, but the moment Zayn shows up, leather jacket unbuttoned and a lit cigarette in the corner of his lips, Louis feels like he can breathe again. He forgets to be nervous as they order their drinks, Louis getting his standard order of tea and teasing Zayn about the amount of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and caramel syrup he adds to his coffee like he always does. They exchange gifts, a set of oil paints and new brushes for Zayn and a booklet of sketches of them all for Louis, little things they’d previously agreed on, and go for a walk, swerving between trees hand-in-hand. They stop for a while at the arts&crafts market so Louis can buy scented candles for Harry and a silly knitted jumper for Liam; it turns out to be even more fun for Zayn than for him, as he keeps stopping at nearly every stand, getting some pretty pieces of jewellery for his mum and sisters and buying some art supplies. He even gets a pair of gloves for Liam and a nice scarf for Niall. They make a detour to go to the thrift store where Louis plans to get that book that screams when opened for Niall and Zayn finds some pretty hairclips for Harry before heading to Zayn’s place. They’re a bit later than they planned, having spent so long at the market, and Louis sets them further back by shoving Zayn up against his car and kissing him until their lips are all numb and tingly as a way of thanking him for going along with their little tradition of buying each other gifts on Valentine’s Day without so much as batting an eye.

 

They’re supposed to have lunch at Zayn’s, but Louis is not particularly hungry and Zayn is still riding the creative wave from yesterday so they drive to his studio instead. Louis steals a few quick bitey kisses that make his lips burn with slight pain at the door before he lets Zayn finish the painting he’s been working on for the last few days. It’s an angel with her wings ripped out, quite violent and gorey, blood dripping down the pale skin of her back and staining a silky white fabric wrapped around her hips and her long dark hair torn out in clumps, what’s left of it matted and messy. There’s something beautiful about it though, something poetically sad even in its unfinished form. Louis has never been one for art, but he can see the beauty in Zayn’s work, the emotion behind it.

 

He doesn’t visit Zayn’s studio often. Zayn spends a lot of his time there and gets a lot of work done, but he only ever shows a few paintings to the public. He says most of his art feels too personal to share and he treats most of it as unfinished anyway, going back to old paintings and adding to them, little details that Louis wouldn’t notice but that Zayn says are essential improvements. Louis understands, he has a notebook full of half-formed poems that no one even knows about, and he doesn’t want to invade Zayn’s privacy in such an unwelcome and cruel way so he stays away unless he’s invited. Even now, he walks around the studio and only looks at the paintings displayed in the front, never pokes around too much even if Zayn’s never told him to fuck off. Louis may be a shit most of the time, but he’s not an arsehole.

 

He’s never actually watched Zayn paint before. It’s a strangely mesmerising process as he takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his henley, gets his palette and paints and sets up the easel and stool. He does it all automatically, barely even looking at what he’s doing, barely even checking what he’s grabbing from cupboards and drawers like he’s so used to doing it he doesn’t need to think about it anymore. He mixes his paints with such care, swirling the brush around and adding different shades until he gets it just right and even then tests it out on a small patch of the canvas before using it. He paints in broad strokes and long, unbroken lines, careful with every twist and curve. He gets this little crease between his brows when he focuses on what he’s doing and his back bows elegantly when he leans forward. His lips stay parted and slightly pouted until he lights a cigarette, more for something to do than because he’s actually craving it, Louis suspects. He juggles the brushes skilfully, never mixing them up and never dropping any of them, long fingers curling around them and stretching out. Louis is finding Zayn himself a lot more fascinating to watch than the play of colour on his canvas. He thinks someone should maybe paint Zayn instead; he’s art already anyway.

 

For all that he spends almost the entire two hours that Zayn takes to finish his painting unable to look away from Zayn, Louis never once thinks of how those hands would touch _him_ , how those fingers would wrap around his cock or how good they’d feel in his arse; there’s no pull low in his belly, no itch he needs scratched, nothing like that. He sees Zayn’s beauty, is captivated by it even, wants to keep it forever, make it his, wants to trace the lines of Zayn’s cheekbones and kiss his jaw, wants to lace his fingers with Zayn’s, wants to sit in his lap and hug him and kiss him until he can’t feel his lips anymore, wants to go to bed wrapped up in Zayn’s arms and wake up to smiley morning kisses, wants to write poetry about how stunning Zayn is and wants Zayn to think him beautiful enough to be painted, wants to bump into Zayn in the mornings while they brush their teeth in the bathroom when they’re both still too grumpy to laugh about it and wants to drunkenly giggle with him in the evenings, wants to get high with him and prank their friends, wants to buy him gifts and get tattooed together, wants so many things. But he doesn’t _want_ to have sex with him. He wouldn’t say no to it, maybe some other time but not right now, and he’d probably even enjoy it, always has with Zayn in the past. He just doesn’t _want_ it, doesn’t need it, doesn’t crave it, wouldn’t instigate it.

 

He finds Zayn attractive. He’s just not attracted to him. He wonders how it took him so long to figure out the difference because it seems as clear as day now that he’s named it, that he understands it better.

 

He’s sitting on the mini-fridge, feet dangling in the air and heels hitting the metal door rhythmically; his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest and he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs and his knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the flat top of the fridge and he needs to say something now or he might never have the kind of courage and certainty he has right now so he just blurts, “So I’m asexual.”

 

Zayn finishes the line he’s drawing and lets it trail off at the bottom of the canvas before looking up at Louis with his eyebrows raised. Louis feels like the entire world stops in that moment. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. He watches for even the slightest hint of a reaction, every moment that passes making a new and progressively worse scenario go through his head — _Zayn doesn’t know what asexual means, Zayn doesn’t believe in asexuality, Zayn thinks it’s just being a prude, Zayn thinks Louis can’t be asexual because technically they’ve had sex before, Zayn doesn’t date asexuals, Zayn won’t date Louis because he’s asexual, Zayn will only date him if he agrees to having sex —_ and then Zayn smiles and asks, “Do I get to make the joke?”

 

Louis is so relieved he doesn’t even complain about the stupid pun, he just sags back against the wall and covers his face with both hands, torn between grinning and crying; he’s feeling _too much_ all at once, an overload of relief and happiness and fondness that makes his body go numb, almost like it’s not his own, almost like he’s too emotional to _be_ physical right now. He feels like he’s floating a bit, lost in some sort of an ethereal state, the way Harry describes subspace, the way Liam describes falling in love with Sophia, the way Niall describes the high of performing for a crowd.

 

Zayn’s hands wrap around his wrists and gently pull his hands away from his face. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 

Louis grins. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , yeah, I’m fine.” Zayn raises his eyebrows. “Do _not_ make the damn joke, I swear. Harry’s more than enough.”

 

“Harry knows?”

 

Louis makes a face. “Yeah, I kinda… freaked out a bit and needed to talk to someone so I told them.”

 

“They’re a good person to talk to about stuff like that, I’d imagine.”

 

“You’re not, like, upset I didn’t tell you first?”

 

“They’re your _best friend_ , Louis, I’d be shocked if I found out before them.”

 

Louis feels a little bit like crying. Mostly it’s from relief. But there’s also all the apparently needless stress he’s put himself through and the now that he thinks about it kinda awful assumptions he made about Zayn’s character. He pulls his arms out of Zayn’s loose grip and takes his hands instead, his fingers slotting with Zayn’s almost automatically, as if they were meant for that. “Sorry it took me so long to tell you? I was, um…”

 

“Fuck, no, it’s okay, it’s always stressful to come out to anyone, don’t worry about it,” Zayn says quickly, accent thicker than usual. He steps closer to Louis, fitting easily between his spread legs. Louis wants to argue that he wasn’t nervous, he’s not nervous about these things, an old coping mechanism of wearing his insecurities as a badge that he’s been trying to get rid of kicking in, but then Zayn puts a hand on his cheek, leans in slowly, as if giving him time to pull away, and kisses him, just a gentle, chaste press of lips together, almost like a reassurance. “I figured, you know. I mean, I figured you were on that _spectrum_ , not necessarily the label.”

 

“Wait, you _knew_?” Louis hisses. He slaps at Zayn’s chest with his free hand. “Could’ve told me, I was a bit slow on the uptake,” he adds jokingly.

 

Zayn shrugs one shoulder and frowns a bit like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t want to presume? More than that, I didn’t want to make you talk about something you maybe didn’t want to talk about. In retrospect, maybe hinting at being cool with it would’ve been better,” he adds somewhat apologetically.

 

It might’ve made things easier, Louis figures. Maybe Louis wouldn’t have taken as long to say it or maybe he would’ve never said it instead. Sometime in the future, maybe when he has Zayn’s ring on his finger, maybe when they live together in a big house with a couple of kids, maybe when they’re telling their grandchildren the story of how they met, Louis is sure he will look back on this and laugh at himself for being so nervous and insecure, for doubting Zayn would be anything but respectful. He’s sure he’ll eventually come to a point where he’ll be just as proud and loud about being ace as he is about being bi, when anything but being out will seem strange to him. He’s not quite there _yet_.

 

None of that matters to him right that second. What matters is that Zayn _knows_ , that Louis _told_ him. That Zayn is holding his hand and running a thumb gently over his cheekbone and leaning his forehead against Louis’ and they’re _okay_. “You are though, right? Cool with it, I mean,” Louis asks, just to make sure.

 

Zayn pulls away enough that he can look into his eyes. “Lou,” he says seriously, “I fell in love with you, not whether or not you’d spread your legs for me.”

 

Louis’ heart flutters a bit at the words, but if he focuses on _that_ too much he might blurt out something else, the emotional mess that he is right now, so instead he decides to go with, “Technically, I already _am_ spreading my legs for you. Like, literally. Right now.” Zayn snorts and rolls his eyes. Whatever, Louis knows he's funny. “And for the record, I’m a better top than bottom. But I’m definitely open to improving in that aspect.”

 

“Alright,” Zayn agrees easily, “you ever wanna fuck me, you let me know.”

 

“I will, you know,” Louis rushes to say. He’s not entirely sure on where his boundaries lie yet and he hasn’t really figured out too many things about his own sexuality or lack thereof, but some things he has and he figures Zayn should probably know them too. Besides, now that he’s got over the initial grand opening, everything feels so much easier; it’s like he couldn’t stop himself from talking even if he wanted to. It feels so good to be able to talk about it, to be open about it without fear that he thinks he might never shut up now. “’Cause, like, sex isn’t _entirely_ off the table, you know? It’s just not really _on_ it until I put it there. And I’d probably need to be, like, _really_ hungry. And then set the table really carefully and elaborately. And even then it’d probably not be a full five-course meal or something.” Zayn’s eyebrows raise steadily until Louis is almost afraid they’ll disappear into his hair if he keeps talking. He might’ve gone on a bit of a confusing tangent there. He’s just a little bit high on adrenaline. “That metaphor fell apart somewhere along the way, didn’t it?”

 

“Ehh, kinda. But I think I got it anyway.”

 

“Okay,” Louis agrees. “Okay.” He feels oddly restless, an excited sort of energy coursing through his body and making his skin tingle all over. He feels like he could go out and run a marathon right now. Except he doesn’t like running. But he could maybe jump around to his favourite song or play some footie in the park or snog his boyfriend senseless. The last one is a good place to start. He pulls Zayn closer, closer so their noses are touching, closer so he can feel Zayn’s breath on his lips when he exhales, closer so he can brush his lips over Zayn’s when Zayn smiles, closer so he can smell the strange mixture of cigarettes and leather and fresh paint that he's grown to love.

 

“Suppose we can talk more about this later,” Zayn mumbles, words slightly muffled as Louis kisses him halfway through the sentence.

 

“Yep,” he chirps, wrapping his legs around Zayn’s narrow hips and bringing him even closer so their bodies are pressed together.

 

“You’ll tell me if anything I do makes you uncomfortable?” Zayn asks quietly, like he’s not entirely sure Louis wants to be asked, but the question just makes Louis melt into him, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest and making his heart beat faster again because Zayn _cares_.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, the word no more than a breath ghosting over Zayn’s parted lips. “Yeah, I’ll tell you. Now kiss me.”

 

Zayn holds him steady, hands gentle on either side of Louis’ face, and kisses his nose to make him laugh before kissing him on the lips. It’s Louis’ favourite kind of kiss, one that’s not even really a kiss at all, just a touch lips and teeth with them both smiling too wide to do anything more. He holds Zayn close by the back of his neck, runs his fingers through Zayn's short hair and scratches gently at his scalp as he nuzzles into him until they’ve both stopped grinning and only then kisses him properly. He keeps his eyes open for a second longer than usually, watches Zayn’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes close and he’s still smiling a little when Zayn sucks on his bottom lip, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of it. He keeps one hand on the back of Zayn’s head, holding him close, while letting the other trail down Zayn’s front to rest on his chest so he can feel the beat of his heart underneath his palm. Zayn’s hands stay on the sides of his face while they kiss slowly, his thumbs gently ghosting over Louis’ cheeks.

 

He lets the kiss taper off much sooner than Louis would’ve liked, pulling back just a breath, their noses still touching when he says, “We’re gonna be late. And I got paint on you.”

 

“I don’t _care_ ,” Louis whines, “don’t wanna go, want kisses.” He grabs Zayn’s waist and pulls him in so quickly he falls over, rocking the fridge, and Louis with it, backwards and into the wall. Louis shrieks, his fingers digging into Zayn’s ribs as he briefly panics, thinking he’ll fall over; Zayn falls on top of him with a grunt and buries his face in Louis’ neck. As soon as Louis realises the quick breaths against his neck are giggles, he’s laughing as well, throwing his head back and unbalancing them both all over again.

 

Somehow he ends up pressed against the wall, held up by Zayn’s hands on his thighs as they trade sweet, smiley kisses. They’re late meeting everyone at the pub.

 

*

 

Louis still gets emotional seeing Harry’s eyes light up when they get presents for Valentine’s Day. It started as a silly little thing the year after they came out to Louis as aromantic; Louis had noticed they were feeling down in the days leading up to Valentine’s Day and he had no one at the time so he took them out for ice-cream and bought them a headscarf they’d been eyeing for days. Louis is never going to forget the way their eyes lit up. They fell asleep with their head on Louis’ chest that night still smiling. Louis couldn’t let that happen only once so it sort of became a thing between them. Even though it started for Harry and will probably always be mostly about them for Louis, it’s actually become a pretty important tradition for him too, a way to remind himself that not all love is romantic and now that not all love is sexual, but that that doesn’t make it any less valid or important. Niall and Liam joined in two years ago without much fuss, but Louis doubts anyone can fully understand why this is so important to him and Harry when they weren’t there from the beginning.

 

It still makes him giddy to see Zayn at the table with the rest of them, unwrapping presents and grinning as he watches the reactions to those he’s given. He’s quickly becoming an integral part of Louis’ life and Louis has a feeling that’s not going to change any time soon so it’s important that he fits in with the people in Louis’ life. To see him laughing at Harry’s bad jokes, flirting with Niall and teasing Liam makes him feel warm all over and smile so hard his cheeks hurt. It’s easy to see them all two or five or ten years into the future, still doing this every year.

 

Louis spends most of the evening still riding the high of Zayn’s acceptance, happy and cuddly, glued to Zayn’s side, their arms linked and knees pressed together. Neither of them are particularly big on PDA, but Louis can’t help himself tonight, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder whenever there’s a lull in the conversation and never going too long without giving him a quick peck. Harry grins at him whenever they catch him. Louis doesn’t regret a single second of it.

 

He goes home with Zayn. They shower together, kissing under the warm spray and drying each other off before crawling under the covers. Louis is exhausted after a long and stressful day and his eyes are drooping, but he stays awake for some sleepy cuddles and kisses. They’re both still naked, legs tangled and skin soft and flushed from the shower. Louis feels slow and sluggish, his thoughts distant as if lost in a fog. The soft press of Zayn’s lips against his own and the way Zayn’s touching him, hands gentle but sure, puts a smile on his face. He’s not sure how he would explain it if asked, but there’s something in the way Zayn’s treating him, an intimacy and a sweetness in the moment that makes him feel warm all over, as if safely wrapped up in a soft blanket. He falls asleep in Zayn’s arms, breathing easier than he has in weeks.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me [on tumblr](http://captivekinqs.tumblr.com)


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